


His Hands

by Wolfscub



Category: British Actor RPF, actor tom hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: D/s, Erotica, F/M, Hands, Mildly Dominant Tom, Rom!Dom!Tom, Spanking, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfscub/pseuds/Wolfscub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In praise of Tom Hiddleston's magic hands and what he does to the OFC with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Woke up in the middle of the night thinking about his hands.
> 
> This is the result.

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/Williamhand_zpse1655fa0.jpg.html)

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/Folded_zps4138bd2e.jpg.html)

_His hands._

_Oh. My. Fucking. God._

_His. Hands._

Hands with big thumbs that gently, patiently wipe every tear he sees fall down my cheeks as he is visibly moved by my sorrow.

Hands that rub my back as he hugs me, every time, without fail, clutching me closer to him, only very reluctantly releasing me, never stepping away first - always reaching down to catch my own hand or loop a strong arm around my waist when I do, not really willing to lose contact, wanting - _needing_ to keep me close to him.

Hands that know exactly where to massage me to melt away the trials of a day spent separated from him, rubbing my shoulders, slowly and with excruciating care down my back then up again, knowing fingertips setting my skin to tingling in a way that only he can - and I know where this will end - where I want it to end - where it always ends . . . in pure, unadulterated bliss.

Hands that never fail to pull my chair out at table, to help me on with my coat, to open car - and other - doors, to catch me as I'm unthinkingly trying to leave without having kissed him good bye.

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/William_zps92257dd4.jpg.html)

Hands that hold me as I fall asleep on him, my head on his chest, my hand clutching his big thumb, his long fingers cuffing my wrist, holding my hand - and thus me - trapped, immobile against his side, every evening wordlessly making me feel infinitely secure and endlessly loved.

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/LokiHandMove_zps6e19903b.gif.html)

Hands that never fail to lay claim to me - in private or public - that rest in the curve of my waist, or the small of my back as we're walking together, whose fingers always want to be interlaced with mine, one long finger caressing gently down my cheek just before he bends to kiss me as cameras flash around us and I blush, as he knows I will. Hands that never worry about our inevitable audience - they seek me, thirst and hunger to touch me at all times - paparazzi be damned.

Hands whose long, elegant fingers brush my hair away from my face so that he can kiss me, that help me into - and out of - the bubble bath he's drawn me, washing me lazily and paying particular attention to my more interesting parts as I watch the rest of him catch up with the blatant desire I can already see tenting his yoga pants . . . 

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/Foldtosternum_zpsc73b64a5.jpg.html)

Hands that embrace me from behind whenever they can, boldly settling either on my aching breasts to firmly massage them or endlessly worry my nipples, or perhaps on my bare hips first - and the fact that I don't start when they settle heavily on me a mark of just how familiar his touch has become to me - then following their curves around to my tummy as he pulls me back to his front - against that ever present hardness that seems to double its already impressive size as soon as it comes in contact with my naked flesh. One hand spreads its fingers so widely that the tip of his pinky finger catches in the very top of my folds and his thumb almost reaches my sternum, while his other hand - its long, well muscled forearm separating my breasts and yet somehow claiming them as his at the same time - settles softly around my neck, firmly encouraging me to arch it back. My head immediately bumps his chest, fervent kisses and vulgar whispers rumbled into my ear more than reward enough for having obeyed his silent command.

A left hand that holds me in place with a firm but gentle presence at the small of my back as his other hand - a right hand - that knows me almost too well, knows exactly how to draw sighs and cries and moans from me - smacking down onto my bare behind, leaving undeniable, livid evidence of its efforts there, my sobs seeming to encourage it to be even crueler before it leaves off punishing me as he squats behind me, both big hands parting my thighs, then much more intimately, my lips, one holding me shamefully open to him, the other probing, delving, surging into me with a ragged sigh breathed against my heated flesh as if he's always surprised to find his fingers luxuriating in my own personal slippery lotion.

Hands which bring the incontrovertible evidence of my ever blossoming hunger for him to my lips so that I might lick his fingers clean of my own tribute to them - their skill, their persistence, their knowledge of how to do every little thing that drives me utterly crazy - and to him . . .

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/Clenchedhands_zps69ab7ece.jpg.html)

Hands that slap loudly against the wall beside my head when we've just gotten through the door and he can't wait another moment to have me, when he wants to confine me, to trap me, to take me - regardless of what I want but knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that what I want _is_ to _submit_ to him, completely, perfectly. Hands that capture mine, insinuating his big fingers between mine to pull them up over my head until I'm dancing on my tiptoes as I hear the sounds of my clothing being ripped from my body, feeling his breath then his mouth on bare nipples that have been craving him since seconds after the last time he left my body.

Hands that draw our laced fingers to my hips as he bends down to catch my legs over his shoulders, then rise up effortlessly with me straddling his face, helpless, my own hands long since rendered useless by the strength of his, dependent on him to keep me safe as his mouth eagerly descends on my clit, tongue swirling and flicking and lapping at me, his fingers clenching and pressing mine even harder against the wall when I naturally try to squirm away from all of that stimulation, futilely chanting, "no, no, no!" knowing with every bit of me that he will never leave me, never let me go until he's gotten what he wants from me - my unconditional surrender - of my pleasure, my pain, my very essence - to him.

Hands - holding me still when I want to twist and arch away from what he's bringing to me, what he's forcing on me - no matter how mind blowingly amazing - while at the same time I'm begging him for release and he's chuckling evilly but not missing a beat. Knowing hands that hold me extra still when it's unmistakably evident that I am almost at my end, protecting me and keeping me safe with him when I am even more vulnerable and raw and naked than I ever will be in my life; he - with his hands, his body, his mind - is the only being on the planet I trust enough to render me this completely defenseless.

Hands that - I am both proud and ashamed - can reduce me to this state at will. His will.

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/Lokicaress_zpsa47456a4.gif.html)

Cupping hands that grasp a sore bottom to lift me up to him at just the right moment, when I'm beyond knowing anything but _him_ as he relentlessly builds the tsunami within me and then deliberately crashes it over me, overwhelming and engulfing me in it and him, feeling him revel in my uncontrollable response, eagerly demanding, coaxing further explosions from me until I can take no more.

Hands holding me still for his possession as he deliberately looks into my eyes, traces of myself moist around his lips as he licks them, cock driving up inside me with one tremendous thrust that makes me squeal loudly at first only to have it descend into a guttural groan, hands held fast against the wall as he drapes my legs over his elbows and _fucks_ me - in the basest sense of the word - hard, unrelenting - taking me for his own, driving himself into me as those hands hold me open for his complete and utter possession, used for his own pleasure, lips and nipples suckled and bitten avidly until I feel every inch of my back slammed up against the wall as he groans my name into my ear, still unable to move as he jerks three or four more times into me, spilling himself within me . . .

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/Stripedsleevehands_zps95b9cd5a.gif.html)

Big, surprisingly gentle hands that see to me tenderly in the aftermath, cupping my cheek as he kisses me with exquisite gentleness, then carries me to our bed, removing the remnants of my outfit and returning to place his open palm over my heart, looking up at me with tears in his eyes as my fingers loop at his wrists to bring his palms to my lips, kissing them with reverence and adoration stark in my own eyes, even through the answering tears.

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/ezgifcom-save_zps9422d5c0.gif.html)


End file.
